


Lemons grow on trees. Reputations, decidedly, do not.

by Deepdarkwaters



Category: Killers Kill; Dead Men Die - Annie Leibovitz
Genre: F/F, Film Noir, Screenplay/Script Format, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 16:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8898565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: "In this town, there are things you see but shouldn't. You learn when to linger in the shadows, how much of your face to turn to the enemy flashlight like the phases of the moon. You learn lies like a language. How to tell them. How to spot them."Tilda Lydeker knows how to keep a secret.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breathedout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathedout/gifts).



> Set a few years before _Killers Kill; Dead Men Die_. I know you're not supposed to put character thoughts and backstory and stuff into screenplay directions, but it seemed to flow better with something extra.
> 
> Happy Yuletide, breathedout!

"Lemons grow on trees. Reputations, decidedly, do not."  
~ Eve Greeley-Waddington

* * *

FADE IN:

EXT. LYDEKER MANSION – NIGHT

A car screeches to a standstill outside the locked front gate, throwing the late summer road dust up from its tires – a Delahaye 135 convertible of the sort of red that gets hearts racing, enough curves and chrome to make a man cry into his scotch and rocks. Sure, a 1936 is a little out of date, but the car's driver, TILDA LYDEKER, will tell you any day of the week and twice on Sundays that quality and class like this will never go out of fashion. You'd feel like she's not really talking about the car, and you'd be right.

The roof is down, and Tilda – curled blonde hair spilling from the side of her cocked fedora, ivory silk blouse erupting in ruffles from the neckline of her leather jacket – rests her elbow on the top rim of the door, tapping her fingers impatiently against the side. Her nails are polished a red so close to the shade of the paintwork that it's almost enough to suspect the beauty girl and the car guy might be sharing the shop space as well as the cheap pay-per-hour motel bed they dirty up on their lunch breaks.

She's waiting for someone, that much is clear – but who? And why not go to the door?

PAN slowly down the length of the car, lingering on its curves like a bored waiter's eyes on a socialite's décolletage. The rhythmic tapping of Tilda's impatient fingertips fades, replaced by the muffled sounds of somebody gagged and stuffed into the tiny trunk.

TILDA (V.O.)  
In this town, there are things you see but shouldn't.  
You learn when to linger in the shadows.  
How much of your face to turn to the enemy flashlight like the phases of the moon.

Tilda lights a cigarette. Blows the smoke up at the stars. Leaves a faint ring of scarlet lipstick there like a smudge of blood from a loose tooth.

TILDA (V.O., CONT'D)  
You learn lies like a language. How to tell them.  
(pause)  
How to spot them.

The front door to the house opens. The incomprehensible hum of voices joins the scent of lemons in the breeze, inflected like goodbyes even though the words are unclear this far away. The metallic clanking of the gate mechanism serves as a herald for ALMA, who waltzes dreamily down the pale granite paving as though held by an invisible lover, while Tilda's nieces REBECCA, LAURA and LYDIA wave dutifully from the doorway. 

TILDA (V.O., CONT'D)  
She danced with John Gilbert in this garden in 1924. Not a lie.  
Doug Fairbanks Jr. kissed her under that tree in '26. Not a lie.

Tilda drops her half-burned cigarette to the ground and crushes it under the toe of her high-heeled shoe when she steps out of the car. She walks around the back, only acknowledging the banging and the muffled yells with a single raised, devastatingly perfect eyebrow, and opens the passenger side door.

Alma smiles at her, dopey and unfocused, and takes Tilda's steadying hand as she folds herself, her diamonds, her evening gown, and her voluminous furs into the car. The girls feed her too much gin when she visits, Tilda suspects, to keep her from making a noisy nuisance of herself in front of company. Aunt Alma the spectacle is a shocking embarrassment. Aunt Alma the sleepy, crazy drunk is proof of their Christian charity.

Tilda crosses back around to her side of the car, slides behind the wheel, takes off at a shrieking speed that leaves tire tracks in the gravelly roadside as deeply furrowed as a private dick's brow.

INT. CAR – NIGHT

TILDA (V.O., CONT'D)  
She's slow? Mad?

Alma blinks – and her eyes are as sharp and sober as Tilda's. She methodically loosens every finger on her long left glove with her teeth until she can peel it away, as sinuous and marvellous as a snake shedding its jewelled skin, and reaches for Tilda's face.

Tilda smiles. It's in her eyes more than on her mouth, something dark and starving hovering somewhere in the depths behind her spidery, blackened lashes. She tucks her face into Alma's palm. Twists to chase her when she pulls back. Catches her breath at the single trailing forefinger Alma allows her then: a slow, tickling trail along the sharp lines of Tilda's jaw and cheekbone.

TILDA (V.O., CONT'D)  
Lie.

Tilda kisses Alma's fingertips, smearing them with a ghost smudge of scarlet lipstick, and Alma puts her hand to her own mouth, rubbing a faint blushing stain of red onto her unpainted lips. She helps herself to the compact mirror in Tilda's jacket pocket, critically inspecting her reflection. 

ALMA  
It's not my color.

TILDA  
I'll clean it off before I kiss you.

Alma laughs. It's a rough, dirty, glorious sort of sound: a voice so husky it could drag you all the way to the north pole and back again. Ladies in satin couture don't laugh like this, whether they're mad or not. This is the laughter of smoky dive bars, sailors' gambling dens, barracks on downtime. 

ALMA  
You think I'll let you move my kiss any farther down your to-do list than it already is?

TILDA (V.O.)  
My sister?

Tilda taps a pair of cigarettes out of her silver case, holds them both between her painted lips to light them, and passes one over. Alma takes it, despite the lipstick ring printed around the end, and inhales deeply. Her eyes never leave Tilda: lingering like teasing fingertips on her face, her pulsing neck, the exposed inner curve of breast framed by her low blouse. When Alma lets her breath out again, the smoke streams back over her shoulder and past her cropped silver hair to vanish into the clear night sky.

TILDA (V.O., CONT'D)  
You spy on us, you blackmail us, and you think you get to see another sunrise?

ALMA  
(gesturing vaguely with her cigarette)  
Here will do.

EXT: CLIFFTOP, PALOS VERDES PENINSULA – NIGHT

Tilda brakes hard, spinning the back end of the car in a wide arc until the vehicle is facing the ocean head on and its front wheels are clinging to the very edge of the crumbling cliff. She's unfazed by the danger; so is Alma. It's clear they've done this before. Done lots of things before. They both step out of the car, as fearless and nonchalant as though it's still parked on safe, solid ground in front of the house, and meet around at the back.

TILDA (V.O.)  
So you wanna know what Alma is to me?

The car's balance right on the edge of the cliff is dangerously precarious. Just a glance might be enough to send it falling over the edge to crash like an unwanted party guest against the splintered rocks and roaring, spitting sea below.

Tilda and Alma help it anyway. Just to be sure.

Four hands planted firm against the back of the car. Two conspiratorial grins, silent, eyes gleaming. One shove. They've always moved together like one person when they have to. When they want to.

The car falls in slow motion. It feels like it falls forever.

TILDA (V.O., CONT'D)  
Tough luck, kid. You wouldn't understand.

Tilda and Alma walk away down the dark, winding road.

They're almost out of sight when Alma reaches for Tilda's hand.

FADE OUT.


End file.
